Our Pagan Realm

Mist gathers over the burial mounds rising above the river Deben. A sparkling waterway threads through the heart of the Anglo-Saxon kingdom of the East Angles. This is where Sutton Hoo, the graveyard of warrior kings – a cluster of mysterious earthworks covered with wildflowers and rare butterflies – marks the ceremonial center of sixth-century England. It is a land of bold oak and threaded hawthorn, echoing to the caw of the crow and the call of the horn. Sunlight slithers down the unsheathed blades of the Warlord’s Gedriht, and a forest of ash spears beat bucklers as the scop sings the battle song.

This is our inheritance: A sward of fresh grass where May queens and axe-wielding horsemen lie under cold moons; where badgers waddle, foxes run, and otters hunt in babbling streams under empty grey skies where falcons swoop and magpies fly. And before the helmeted heathens came, the conquering Celts celebrated their Nos Calan Gaeaf rites on All Hallows’ Eve. Burning byres reflect in their smoldering dark eye, their bending bows sending arrows high. Pointed tips punch holes in the Geoguth’s shining mail.

And as the Pictish north came south to break like salt waves over the Northumbrian shield wall at Nechtansmere, where King Ecgfrith fell and King Bridei Mac Bili prevailed, Iona flourished and Bede scribed his Ecclesiastical History of the English People, telling the tales of those distant times. The Brythonic breed fused with German genes to build an empire and forge a crown that centuries later went on to spread its influence so far and wide that upon its glory, the Sun never set.

This is our legacy: A Union upon these blessed isles, a commonwealth of countries, beating hearts tied forever to their own unique mountains and lakes. They may remain friendly rivals, but in the face of adversity they always unite against invasion and evil tides, strengthened by the Viking and Norman blood that wells in our veins and leaves its traces in our names. It is home to the Mother of Parliaments and iconic bards.

So while our enemies plot and scheme, casting their shadows over a history so great, we, who heed the growl of the wolf, stretch our limbs and chomp at the bit, flexing our muscles as our jowls start to drip in anticipation of the feast and fight.

We sense betrayal – and not just from the ermine-draped cadavers occupying the corridors of power in London, but also in our corporate boardrooms, our university common rooms, and editorial offices throughout our land. These are such people as the multimillionaire Roland Rudd, who funds Open Britain; the patronizing professor, David Reynolds, who recently published Island Stories: Britain and Its History in the Age of Brexit, which is clearly intended to refute anything Nigel Farage may say on the subject of an independent Britain, and like every other Left-leaning academic he lashes out sarcastically at earlier foundational texts like Henrietta Marshall’s much-loved Our Island Story (1905); and the smug, self-promoting political scientist Matthew Goodwin, who gave himself to the system’s strategy of demonizing what they consider to be the “far Right” prior to any general election Boris Johnson may contrive. Goodwin penned the cliché-ridden hit piece “HATE INC” in the Sunday Times of October 20, 2019, which is a patchwork quilt of thin arguments, listing in morbid detail nearly every act of violence those seemingly sympathetic to the Right have perpetrated over the last decade without providing the contextual circumstances in the Great Replacement. This is a term Goodwin derides in his article as he opens with descriptions of interviewing beer-swilling skinheads hoarding collections of history books about the Waffen-SS and peddling former Police Commissioner Mark Rowley’s line that “the Right-wing terrorist threat is more significant and more challenging than perhaps public debate gives it credit for.”

Goodwin is the embodiment of the virtue-signaling know-it-all who the media run to for expert opinion, but who in reality knows very little. He is a mouthpiece for the liberal milieu who flirt with knowledge and accuracy only to bend it to their purpose. Their purpose is never to present a balanced view, but to warp the narrative so that the liberal elite can always command the moral high ground. This is a position from which they can look down upon those below and identify and plan how they can see off the nationalist and populist threat to their hegemony so that they can continue to milk the country for all it’s worth and open up our shores to the world.

And so, Canute-like, a few stand, undaunted and undismayed beneath the thousand-year-old Allerton Oak, armed with the certainty of their rightful place upon this spinning globe. They champion cultural practices beside Boann and Brighid’s sacred waters that transcend the ages and the ethnic roots that bind us like vines entwining stones in our native soil. Tales of Cernunnos, Herian, Teutates Lenus, Aine, and Sulis fix us to the Solar Wheel that circles in our subconscious minds. In truth, the hearts of our people still run with Herne through the forest thickets, and a yearning for the wild hunt is embedded in our race-soul.

Hoof and horn, hoof and horn:
All who die shall be reborn.
Corn and grain, corn and grain:
All that falls will rise again.

14 Comments

Yes a timely piece. The current multiculturalist narrative can be parodied as follows:

Britain was founded by a Person of Colour — Cheddar Man and contained a happy mix of multicultural folk such as Celts and Romans until the arrival of slavemongering racist white imperialists. The succeeding centuries were very much a catalogue of shame.

The Olden Days, as inner city youth call them, ended in nineteen fifty something with the Second Founding of Britain by Jamaicans from the Windrush who introduced music, good foods and NHS to the islanders.

Since then apart from some racist inbreds in the countrysides where no one goes, Britain has been multicultural. There is some tories and and old peoples left but they are dying innit?

And for those who find it easier to chew over poetry rather than prose, here’s the bits that stood out to me, set out as verse. With apologies to Fenek Solère, who undoubtedly could have done a better job than I.

Mist gathers over the burial mounds rising above the river Deben.
A sparkling waterway threads through the heart
of the Anglo-Saxon kingdom of the East Angles.
This is where Sutton Hoo, the graveyard of warrior kings
– a cluster of mysterious earthworks covered with wildflowers and rare butterflies
– marks the ceremonial center of sixth-century England.
It is a land of bold oak and threaded hawthorn,
echoing to the caw of the crow and the call of the horn.
Sunlight slithers down the unsheathed blades of the Warlord’s Gedriht,
and a forest of ash spears beat bucklers as the scop sings the battle song.

This is our inheritance:
A sward of fresh grass
where May queens and axe-wielding horsemen lie under cold moons;
where badgers waddle, foxes run, and otters hunt in babbling streams
under empty grey skies where falcons swoop and magpies fly.
And before the helmeted heathens came,
the conquering Celts celebrated their Nos Calan Gaeaf rites on All Hallows’ Eve.
Burning byres reflect in their smoldering dark eye,
their bending bows sending arrows high.
Pointed tips punch holes in the Geoguth’s shining mail.

And as the Pictish north came south
to break like salt waves over the Northumbrian shield wall at Nechtansmere,
where King Ecgfrith fell and King Bridei Mac Bili prevailed,
Iona flourished and Bede scribed his Ecclesiastical History of the English People,
telling the tales of those distant times.
The Brythonic breed fused with German genes
to build an empire and forge a crown
that centuries later went on to spread its influence
so far and wide that upon its glory, the Sun never set.

This is our legacy:
A Union upon these blessed isles,
a commonwealth of countries,
beating hearts tied forever to their own unique mountains and lakes.
They may remain friendly rivals,
but in the face of adversity they always unite against invasion and evil tides,
strengthened by the Viking and Norman blood that wells in our veins
and leaves its traces in our names.
It is home to the Mother of Parliaments and iconic bards.

So while our enemies plot and scheme,
casting their shadows over a history so great,
we, who heed the growl of the wolf,
stretch our limbs and chomp at the bit,
flexing our muscles as our jowls start to drip
in anticipation of the feast and fight.

We sense betrayal
– and not just from the ermine-draped cadavers
occupying the corridors of power in London,
but also in our corporate boardrooms,
our university common rooms,
and editorial offices throughout our land…

And so, Canute-like, a few stand, undaunted and undismayed
beneath the thousand-year-old Allerton Oak,
armed with the certainty of their rightful place upon this spinning globe.
They champion cultural practices
beside Boann and Brighid’s sacred waters
that transcend the ages and the ethnic roots
that bind us like vines entwining stones in our native soil.
Tales of Cernunnos, Herian, Teutates Lenus, Aine, and Sulis
fix us to the Solar Wheel that circles in our subconscious minds.
In truth, the hearts of our people still run with Herne
through the forest thickets,
and a yearning for the wild hunt
is embedded in our race-soul.

Dear Bobby,
What a lovely poetic rendition of my piece. I am honored and flattered!
CC will soon be publishing some articles I have prepared on Tolkien & Chaucer and Beowulf. I trust you will also enjoy them when they appear
Best Wishes
FS

The lands of mountain streams, of Beech, Ash and Oak, may be in our hearts, but do those sentiments reside with in the hearts of Farage and Johnson? I think not. Those men are avowed ‘Atlanticists’ and prefer that form of globalism over the current flavor offered by Brussels.

Dear Vehmgericht,
Please don’t forget Dan Snow (son of the hateful Jon Snow of Channel 4 News – or rather the extreme Left Wing and pro immigration propaganda show), Sam Willis and Alice Roberts. All of whom, particularly the latter two, are willing to ditch academic fact and intelligent supposition based on a reasonable comprehension and understanding of sometimes scant evidence and follow the script of the multicultural priests. Writers who are willing to assign almost every facet of British, Indo-European and white culture to African, Arabic or South east Asian origin. I wretch every time I see the hideous visage of Prof. Mary Beard waddle across the Roman Forum pontificating about Nubian influences over Egypt and Greece and by default the whole Roman Empire. Her increasingly high profile role in the media is the direct result of her obvious political leanings…I simply dread to think of the effect these people are having on the minds of today’s adolescent learners?
Best
FS

Like many a permanently-aggrieved person, Mary Beard is constantly getting herself into scrapes and then bleating about her mistreatment on social media. Most recently she was stripped down to her scanties by airport security staff. Did they not know who she was?

Back on topic, I highly recommend Britain Begins by Sir Barry Cunliffe for a fact-based account of the genetic and archeological history and pre-history of the British Isles. A sympathetic Guardianreview from the halcyon pre-‘woke’ days of 2012 goes into more detail. The book is not at all on-message with the nation of diverse immigrants cant pitched in schools at the fickle attentions of our ‘effnic learners’ — CounterCurrents votaries will find it fascinating and rewarding.

Yes, indeed, Sir Barry is generally (but not always) a balanced pair of hands. The image of Mary Beard in her underwear is however now ‘locked’ in my mind and I am just hoping I can still get to sleep tonight????
Best
FS

My own Anglian ancestors settled in the Lincolnshire fens, on the northern side of the Wash. One of them eventually fought in the square at Abu Klea. Ended up running a tavern near the Lincolnshire coast.